Equinox

by Michael White

  'May I bother you for a moment, Sir Christopher?'

  'Naturally, sir. Come in. Take a seat. Did you enjoy my lecture?'

  'Yes, I did — very much,' Newton replied gravely. He was trying to control his excitement.

  'I'm most honoured by your presence, sir. Indeed, we had a fine audience tonight, did we not? So, how may I help you?' Wren left his hair alone and began to remove his jacket. Newton noticed that it was stained with sweat.

  'I found your description of the construction of the Sheldonian Theatre most beguiling. But. .' He hesitated briefly. 'I was particularly taken with your mention of the subterranean cave system.'

  'Oh, really? I am crestfallen, sir,' Wren dead-panned. 'I thought you would have favoured talk of the engineering feat, the genius of the design, the extraordinary accommodation of Nature's forces.'

  'Please forgive me.' Newton looked lost for a moment. 'I did not mean. .'

  'I'm jesting, Isaac. Ye gods, it must be true what they say about you — that you never laugh and have been known to smile but once.'

  Newton, po-faced, said nothing. Sensing that he had offended the scientist, Wren placed a hand on the younger man's shoulder. 'Forgive me. I meant no insult, my friend.'

  Newton took a step back and bowed. 'No offence taken, I'm sure. Sir, I was enamoured with your entire talk, but the cave fascinated me. Perhaps this interest comes as a result of some inexplicable primeval connection in my mind. Whatever it may be, I would like to know more about it.'

  'Sadly, I can add almost nothing to what I said earlier tonight. It was a quarter of a century ago. I was young and idealistic and I believed I could go back to explore at my leisure.'

  'But there are caves under the Sheldonian?'

  'Oh, indeed there are. But they remain unexplored.'

  'Did you record the layout on paper?' 'I did not.'

  'So what exactly did you see?' Newton found it hard to keep the rising excitement out of his voice.

  Wren frowned. 'There were two openings, I recall. I had the workmen dig around them for a day, as I said. They uncovered a flat roof, a winding corridor, tunnels. I sent two men down with a lantern. Yes, it's coming back to me now. They were gone an inordinately long time. And we were about to dispatch a search party-after them when they re-emerged, a little shabby and feeling somewhat sorry for themselves.'

  Newton raised an eyebrow. 'What had befallen them?'

  'I managed to obtain from them only a few facts. Apparently, there was some sort of maze beyond the opening. But they were confused about even this.

  One of the men said it was a natural convolution of the tunnels, the other thought it was a demonic creation. They were superstitious and ignorant workmen, of course, but I could not have spared anyone with more intelligence at that time. It was perhaps a little foolish of me to digress from the work to which I was committed. It appeared that there were natural corridors leading off towards Hertford College to the south-east and to a point beneath the Bodleian Library almost directly south. I knew from experience that at Hertford College the cellars extend far underground with tunnels leading outward in the direction of my theatre. It was a trivial matter to join them up, and in that way I thought I was satisfying the calling of my curiosity and respecting my muse. You understand?'

  Newton seemed far away, staring at Wren without speaking. Then he pulled himself together.

  'Apologies, sir,' he mumbled. 'I was totally absorbed by your words. I do understand. We must satisfy our muse lest we shrivel up and die.'

  'Quite.'

  Newton appeared to have nothing more to add and an uncomfortable silence fell between the two men.

  'Well, if that is all you seek, Isaac. .' Wren said.

  'I'm most grateful to you,' Newton responded abruptly. 'Most grateful. Farewell, Sir Christopher.' He bowed and made for the door.

  Chapter 9

  Laura was sitting in Philip's house with the Aga on full and a fire blazing in the grate, wondering for perhaps the sixth time that evening how anyone could live in a house without central heating, when Philip's car pulled up outside.

  In the hall he hung up his sodden coat and walked into the living room.

  'God, you look awful,' she said.

  'I feel awful,' he replied without looking at her. 'How's Jo?'

  'She's upstairs, asleep. Battered and bruised but basically in one piece.'

  'And is she cold?' Philip asked sarcastically. 'I can't believe the bloody temperature in this house.'

  'Hah!' Laura said. I can't believe you enjoy living in the Stone Age. Have you not heard of that great new invention, the radiator?'

  Philip sighed and slumped into a chair, put his elbows on the table and cupped his head in his palms. 'Yeah, OK. . whatever.'

  'Bad day?'

  He looked up at her. His eyes were bloodshot. 'I could do with a drink.'

  A few moments later Laura handed him a huge malt whisky and settled into the chair next to him. 'You look like you need to get something off your chest.'

  Philip took a gulp of his drink. 'Yes, and you won't give up until I tell you about it, will you?' he replied lightly.

  'Absolutely not. So, what's been happening?'

  He glanced over her shoulder at the TV. The local news programme had just started and Detective Chief Inspector Monroe was about to give an interview to a journalist. 'Let's watch this,' Philip said and turned up the volume with the remote.

  'So, Detective Chief Inspector,' the journalist was saying. 'You can confirm a second incident?'

  'Yes, the body of a young woman was found this morning on a tributary of the Cherwell close to the city centre.'

  'And was this murder similar to the first, the one that was discovered last night?'

  'It does share certain characteristics,' Monroe replied guardedly.

  'I see. Some people are suggesting that we have a serial killer at large. Can you deny or confirm this?'

  'It is far too early to jump to conclusions. You'll appreciate that we are doing everything we can-'

  'But,' the interviewer interrupted, 'is it true that there is some ritualistic element to the murders?'

  Monroe looked weary. 'All we can say at the moment is that there are some common characteristics.'

  The journalist quickly changed tack. 'So, Chief Inspector, what happens now? Can you offer the public any advice?'

  'Yes, indeed I can. I would like to reiterate that every effort is being made to find the person or persons responsible for these murders. We simply ask that members of the public remain calm, support us in our investigation in any way they can, and if anybody has any information that they come forward.'

  Philip turned off the TV.

  'Very cagey,' Laura said.

  'Well, he has to be. Standard police procedure: never give details away. If someone comes forward with evidence to support the facts that have been deliberately kept from the public, you know they are leads worth following. It also lowers the risk of nutters trying to copycat.'

  'Yeah, I know that, Philip. Remember what I used to do in New York?'

  Philip smiled. 'Sorry.'

  'So, you're going to be more forthcoming than Monroe, I hope.'

  'Naturally, Laura,' he replied. Leaning back in his chair, Philip stretched out his legs and took a deep breath before telling her about the woman in the punt. After describing the pictures that he had taken he fell silent and drained his glass.

  'My God,' Laura said slowly. 'I thought New York was a brutal place. You were told the body had been there for — what? Four hours?'

  'She was partially concealed by the branches of a tree. Spotted by a woman out this morning.'

  'Nice thing to stumble upon.'

  Philip raised his eyebrows.

  'So, that would place the murder in the early hours of the morning — 3, 4 a.m.'

  'I guess so,' Philip replied and stared at Laura wearily. 'She lived in a house along the river. It's an out-of-the-way stretch of the Cherwell, no tourist punts th
ere. Besides, it's out of season. It was the family boat. The parents are in Europe. Thing is, though, she wasn't murdered in there. Monroe went straight to the house. The girl's bedroom looks like the inside of an abattoir. She was placed in the punt later, which was guided to a spot under the trees and tethered to the bank.'

  'Carefully planned. Like the murder at The Perch. You say a silver coin was left in the girl's skull?'

  'That's right.'

  'Did you notice where the gold coin was at the scene of the first murder? Did you see it before Monroe had it?'

  'No.'

  'Surely they would have left the scene untouched until you took your pictures?'

  'Yes, you're right. But the wound was a total mess. I got the feeling from Forensics that the coin was embedded in the chest cavity and they only found it when they inspected the wound.'

  'Well, there you are: another ritualistic element.'

  'So, what're you suggesting?'

  'The murders took place within a few hours of each other. Two young girls, mutilations performed with expert precision.'

  'And?'

  'Well, I've heard of something similar — and so have you. Whitechapel, 1880s? Young women murdered and torn apart?'

  'Oh, great.' Philip offered his glass for a refill. 'Just what Oxford needs: a twenty-first-century Jack the Ripper.'

  Chapter 10

  'What's brought this on?' Philip asked as Laura, sitting on the edge of his bed, shook him awake.

  'Oh, just felt like it,' Laura replied lightly, laying a breakfast tray on the quilt between them

  'You're after something.' Philip sat up and rubbed his eyes.

  'Philip

  'You want to get involved in the investigation. Am I right?'

  Laura could not pretend for long. 'I've been thinking about it all night. Hardly slept a wink.'

  'But, Laura, this is a police investigation. You have no authority… I don't have any authority, for God's sake!'

  'I'm not suggesting I enrol in the police force, Philip. I'm just saying I want to conduct, well, a parallel line of inquiry.'

  '"A parallel line of enquiry"?' Philip scoffed. 'This isn't Kojak , you know'

  'I think I can help.'

  Philip said nothing. 'Could I at least have some tea first?'

  Laura poured milk into his cup.

  'Agh. . bloody Americans and tea! Let me do this. And you tell me what you've been mulling over all night.'

  She placed a couple of pillows at the far end of the bed and settled herself against the ironwork of the bedstead. 'I kept thinking about what I said last night — you know, about Jack the Ripper? But I soon realised that there are actually very few similarities between our murders and the Whitechapel killings. Sure, the Ripper's victims had organs removed and there were ritualistic aspects to the murders. The police at the time discovered some weird Freemason connection, but they never really got it figured. Even today we still don't know for certain who the murderer was.'

  'So, what're you saying?'

  'For a start, all the victims in Whitechapel were prostitutes, as were most of the more recent murders of the Yorkshire Ripper back in the 1980s. Also, the way the organs were removed from the current victims is very different to the historical cases. Sure, all the Whitechapel victims had their throats cut, left to right, but each murder was more brutal than the last. The Ripper's final victim, Mary Kelly, was practically ripped apart. There was also a clear sexual aspect to the murders. The two MOs are quite different.'

  'You've certainly been doing your homework/ Philip said half-mocking.

  Laura shrugged. 'I've read a few books about Jack the Ripper. Always fascinated me.' She took a breath. 'There's a very specific ritualistic aspect to these two cases. Gold coin, silver coin, heart removed, brain removed. Maybe there's something significant in the fact that the second murdered girl was placed on water while the first victim, the one near The Perch, was on land. But it's not a whole lot to go on, is it? Did you find out anything more yesterday?'

  'Not really, Laura. I'm a police photographer. I spent most of the day producing prints and backing up the digital files, sending material to Scotland Yard and looking up pictures on the police database.'

  'But surely you've got buddies at the station? You must have found out something. Jesus! Surely you're curious?'

  Philip poured himself a second cup of tea. Picking up a piece of toast, he said, 'Well, of course I've done some prying. But why should I tell you about it?'

  Laura looked shocked.

  'You're going back to New York, aren't you? What's the point?'

  'I've decided to stay a while.'

  'Oh, you have, have you?'

  'You don't have to put up with me here if. .'

  'Oh, Laura. Of course you can stay, stay as long as you like … If you can put up with the plumbing.'

  She smiled suddenly. 'It was Jo's accident. .'

  'I realise that, but now?'

  'Well, now I'm intrigued. I'm ditching Thomas Bradwardine and thinking more in terms of a modern mystery.'

  'Ah-ha. Well, that's honest, I suppose.' 'I wasn't. .'

  'OK,' Philip said softly. 'What do you want to know?'

  'Well, the whole shebang, Philip.' He laughed out loud and sat back against the pillows. 'You're amazing.' 'So?'

  'Well, I don't know all that much. . they don't know that much. Both girls were university students. The first victim, the girl in the car, was Rachel Southgate. Eighteen, a Fresher, daughter of a bishop — Leonard Southgate, a widower living in Surrey. Rachel had three older sisters. The girl in the punt was Jessica Fullerton. Nineteen, just starting her second year. Oxford family, live in a house about a hundred yards from where her body was discovered. An only child — both parents were immensely proud of their academic daughter. As I told you last night, she had the house to herself, parents in Europe. Mum and dad were contacted yesterday. Should be back in Oxford by now'

  'Was there anything about the victims that linked them? Apart from the fact that they were both students? Which college were they at?'

  'No link. Jessica was at Balliol reading law, Rachel was at Merton studying English.'

  'What about physical characteristics? Families? Friends? Did they know each other?'

  'Rachel was blonde, tall, slender, Jessica was brunette, shorter, heavier. Both came from vaguely middle-class families. No idea if they knew each other. I guess Monroe's boys are covering that, it's routine stuff.'

  Laura nodded and looked out of the bedroom window. It was a fresh, crisp spring morning — yesterday's rain was far away now. 'Doesn't tell us much, does it?'

  'I called one of the guys at the station for an update last night,' Philip said after a while. 'Forensics have found that the two coins are solid precious metals, but not ancient. They were minted recently and made to look old.'

  'The originals must be incredibly rare. But just leaving replicas has to mean something very special to the killer.' Laura paused for a moment. 'Could you sketch them? Didn't they have some figures on them?'

  'God, let me think.'

  She walked over to a chest of drawers and found a piece of paper and a pencil.

  'Actually, we don't need those. I can do better, if you can stomach it.'

  'Your camera.'

  'If you're feeling athletic, it's in the hall.'

  A couple of minutes later Philip had found the close-ups stored on the memory chip in his Nikon, picked one, zoomed in on the coin and turned the camera round so that Laura could see the screen on the back. 'That's about the best one. I could print it out for you.'

  Laura did her best to ignore the exposed raw flesh in various shades of red encircling the coin and to focus on the object at the centre of the image. It showed the profile of a head, a thin angular androgynous face with a long noble nose. The person depicted on the silver coin left inside Jessica Fullerton's cranium was wearing some sort of rectangular headpiece. 'I'm sure there were some female figures on the first coin.'

/>   'Yes, I think there were,' Philip replied.

  Laura grabbed the notebook. 'Something like this, wasn't it?' She showed Philip her drawing of robed figures holding up a bowl.

  'Well, it's no Rembrandt. But yes, it was something along those lines.'

  'So what do you think it represents?' 'Search me.'

  'And this figure. Looks vaguely familiar,' she said, pointing to the digital image. 'He, she looks like an ancient Egyptian, a Pharaoh, don't you think?'

  Philip shrugged. 'Maybe. The other side could be some religious imagery. The Egyptians were sun-worshippers, weren't they? Maybe this bowl,' and Philip pointed to Laura's sketch, 'represents the sun.'

  Laura stared at the photographic image and then at the rough sketch she had made. 'I'd really like a print of this.' She tapped the screen. 'And I have to do a little more digging.'

  Chapter 11

  'Old Fotheringay at St John's told me about Jo's accident,' said James Lightman, turning to Laura as they walked along the corridor leading to his office. The walls, the floor and the ceiling were all limestone and the sound of their shoes echoed around them. Laura followed Lightman up a wide marble staircase, and through a doorway she caught a glimpse of book stacks lining a vast room into which broad shafts of sunlight fell.

  'Sorry I didn't call you, James. Things have been, well, a little crazy.'

  'Good Lord, Laura, I understand. The good news is that it's kept you with us a little longer. It was only a couple of days ago that you were bidding me farewell.'

  'It's given me more research time* a week at least.'

  They had reached the Chief Librarian's office and Lightman held the heavy oak door open for Laura. She stepped in and looked around, struck by the familiar old rush of the senses that she had first experienced when she was eighteen. The office was a room with a vaulted ceiling and it was stacked with ancient books, antiquities and curios — a stuffed owl in a glass case, a brass pyramid, strange stringed musical instruments and marquetry boxes from North Africa. She could hear Bach playing faintly in the background.